Dead Man Walking
by BlueNeutrino
Summary: James comes home reeking of alcohol and drenched in blood, and Lorna contemplates the mortality of the man they call Devil.


It's the early hours of the morning when a loudly slamming door and floorboards creaking in the entrance hall signify James' return. Before she even smells the alcohol Lorna knows he's drunk. Were he not, he wouldn't have made a sound.

There's a stern, anxious expression on her face when she goes to greet him—a short journey from beside the fireplace where she'd chosen to stay up and wait—but it turns swiftly to horror when she takes in the state he's in. Mud and river water has ingrained itself deeply in his clothes, and his face is obscured behind a thick layer of blood.

"James, what happened?"

No answer. She hears the clatter of footfalls on the stairs, and there's a weary sigh as Brace arrives to witness his master's return. "Oh, so he lives," the butler says, tone scathing, though Lorna sees the alarm on his face. "What trouble have gotten yourself into now, James?"

The only response James deigns to give is a grunt, before shuffling past them towards the parlour and plonking himself down onto the couch. He seems to have little care for the state of the floor as he thrusts out his legs. "Brace. Boots."

"It's more than your boots need seeing to," Brace retorts with a despairing glance at the trail of blood and dirt, though obediently begins to tug them off. "Where have you been?"

"Out."

Beneath the stench of river water, Lorna can smell the sharpness of cheap brandy on James' breath. He's so pissed he probably doesn't even know. "He's freezing," she says as she brushes her fingers against his cheek, hands searching for evidence of wounds where her eyes can't tell blood from dirt. Beneath the ooze his skin is like barely melted frost.

"I'll draw up a bath," Brace says, still looking angry, though Lorna already knows that by the time James is sober the servant won't say a word. "Get him out of those clothes. I'll see if there's any salvaging them tomorrow."

"Best to salvage him first," Lorna mutters as Brace leaves, watching James' eyelids slip half closed now that he's got himself beside the relative warmth of the fire. Her fingers tap sharply against his cheek. "No. You are not going to sleep in this state."

Slumped low on the couch, she watches him sluggishly try to focus before he fixes her with a glare. "My house. I'll sleep where I like."

"It's not about where. It's _how._ " She pushes his drenched coat from his shoulders like lead made fabric (if he's been in the river, how did he not sink?) and starts to search his chest for signs of injury. "You lose consciousness before we have you warmed up, you might not wake again."

There's more blood staining the front of his shirt. Red rivulets seep over her fingers like the fabric itself were bleeding as she balls her fists into it, lifting to inspect the damage beneath.

"'S not mine," James supplies, slurring, and the smeared shadows of ink and dirt on his skin make it hard for her to believe him.

"Arms up."

He manages that, at least, and Lorna makes a fresh smudge of muddy crimson across his face as she tugs the shirt over his head. The flickering firelight accentuates the motion of his chest, and for some moments she watches him breathe, until she's assured against all the odds that he isn't struggling against the weight of water lodged in his lungs. She uses the already-ruined shirt to wipe more of the mess away, and as it begins to clear Lorna studies the narrow red lines of scars criss-crossing his torso. She doesn't know the old well enough to tell them from new.

"Where have you been, James?" she asks again, gentler, and it's either fatigue or apathy that keeps him from protesting when her fingers begin to roam his skin.

"Attending to business," he says gruffly, and doesn't look at her.

"Do you really believe yourself so invulnerable you can afford to keep doing this? You already have more enemies than you can count on both hands, yet it seems that every day you insist on gathering more."

"I'm more likely to die at the hands of someone I trust than someone I fear. That's why I trust no-one."

"You fear no-one either. Perhaps you should."

A haunted look passes over his face. "Like she should have feared me?"

Lorna stills. It's true that he's been this way for as long as she's known him, but there's no denying that things have gotten worse since Winter. "You didn't do it, James."

"You don't know that."

"What I do know is that she didn't want you to die."

"I already have."

Were he not in such a sorry state, Lorna thinks she'd slap him. "Oh, already dead, are you? Then why am I wasting my time?" She bunches up his soiled shirt and flings it to the floor. Her palm flattens over his chest, pressed to the wall of his ribs where his pulse thrums beneath. "What is it I feel in there, James? An illusion? Some Devil's trick?"

Still not looking at her face, he reaches up to try to pull her hand away, but she instead grasps his own and presses it to the same place. "You'll acknowledge your heart beats, at least. What happens if it stops?"

James grunts and, finally, tries to lift his gaze to hers. He's far from sober, but she thinks she sees what might actually be comprehension in those grey eyes.

"I want to reach America as much as you do," Lorna murmurs, softer now, and he doesn't look away. "Try not to die before we've made it so far as the Estuary."

By the time Brace returns, she's found evidence of no less than three injuries: one on his scalp, shallow, but bleeding heavily, and a further two more significant gashes on his back. They'll need stitching once they're clean.

"Go to bed, Mrs Delaney," Brace says as he hooks an arm under James' shoulder to haul him to his feet. "I'll see to him from here."

"I think not. If I'm to be burdened with him for a stepson, I'll do my part."

"Enough, both of you." James mumbles his protest and tries to break free from Brace's grip, though that doesn't keep him from grasping at Lorna's arm for support. "I can bathe myself."

Brace gives him a withering look. "Aye, until you pass out from drink and your head slips under the surface. What will you do then?"

"I can hold my brandy. I shan't pass out." James takes a lurching step, abandons the stable ballast of Lorna's shoulder, and does just that.


End file.
